Strange Fruit
by L. Catherine Dion
Summary: When a woman is found near Santa Monica Pier, Crews and Reese must determine if someone is, quite literally, on a witch hunt. Crews/Reese
1. Pier Fruit

Santa Monica Pier.

Reese squinted into the morning sun as Crews knelt beside the body of a woman in her early twenties. Short black hair, mixed race, definitely, predominantly African American with delicate cheekbones. She was wearing an ankle length loose white dress, bare sandy feet, bright red toenails. No shoes anywhere. Her eyes swept over the scene as she put a hand on her gun. She was watching the waves as they hit the pale shore, her boots sinking into the sand.

"Reese, you should come look at this," Crews called. She glanced down, pulled her sunglasses down for a second to shoot him a look, and moved out across the sand, watching where she stepped as the crime scene techs snapped photos. Reese brushed her hair behind an ear and frowned lightly as she crouched.

"Coins?" There were two heavy coins sitting on top of the woman's eyelids. Reese let out a sigh as she pulled gloves on and shifted, tilting her chin to study the six pieces of fruit sitting in a basket near what looked like an altar. There were grapes, too in a cup and what looked like cornbread on a plate. The cup had something vaguely alcoholic in it. She sniffed at it and made a face.

"Maybe she was going somewhere," Crews suggested. "Had to pay the ferryman, Reese. We all gotta pay a toll. Maybe someone was paying hers for her."

Reese frowned.

"Witch."

She glanced up at Bobby Stark who stood there staring down at the woman skeptically. Reese glanced at Crews and they both slowly glanced at Bobby again. He just smiled and gave them a look like that was supposed to help them. Reese scowled and Crews looked baffled for awhile. Her voice overlapped his a second later.

"_What_?"


	2. Peaches & Creme

"She's a witch," Bobby repeated. "Altar, fruit, dead candle." He waved his clipboard and the pages fluttered in the wind. "She's a witch. They come down here all the time. Something about the water and the beach and askin' for a good summer or something. I dunno, but we usually have to clear them out. Guess she slipped through."

Crews's eyebrows arched.

"What? They're not like...Satanists. I mean, hell if I understand what they think they're doing down here with all the chanting and bullshit, even if they are a little," he gestured and whistled, "y'know, gone in the head. They usually don't do much more than piss security off."

"Except when they get dead," Reese muttered, shifting on the balls of her feet to get a look at the puncture marks. "Looks like she was stabbed more than--" She paused. "_Huh_. Crews, what does this look like to you? A pattern? Cuz it looks like one to me. See here and here?" Reese pointed, flicking her gloved fingers at the wounds. "And then this over here?"

"It's a circle," he said thoughtfully. "Did you know there's no beginning and no end to a circle? It's literally _perfect_. I think I should get more circles. It'd be nice to have something perfect. I think _you_," he stared at Reese, beaming, "should get more circles. I think everyone should get more circles, then every person on the planet could have something really, truly per--"

"_Crews_," Reese hissed.

His mouth snapped shut.

"_Thank_ you," she said. "Any ID at all?"

"Not yet," he said quietly and possibly with the tiniest hint of of a pout. Very tiny. So tiny she wouldn't-- Crap. She noticed. He went for a case related distraction so she'd stop looking at him like that. "...Reese, you should get an ice cream cone from the vendor up there."

She leaned toward him with a frustrated look on her face.

"What? _No_, Crews, I'm not getting ice cream. Why would I get ice cream?" she grumbled. He gave her a pointed look and she made a face. "I'm not gonna--" She followed his gaze and caught the way the guy was peering and shifting and darting back into his booth.

"Hey, Bobby, you tell us if they find ID? I'm pretty sure that guy has some mango sherbet up there and I...you know, I just can't _not_," Crews said, grinning as he stripped his gloves off. "How many times do you see _mango sherbet_ advertised? _Not_ much. Reese, I'm pretty sure there's peach up there, too. You could have some peach. It'd do you good, very healthy, peaches."

He watched her throw Bobby one of those _I'ma kill him_ looks. Bobby, being Bobby, just grinned and turned away to talk to Juarez, who gestured at a small crowd. Stark grumbled and followed his partner while Crews practically bounced his way to the vendor.

He could see Reese getting annoyed with his enthusiasm as she charged after him. She had that _tolerating your complete bullshit_ look on her face, the one that put a tiny crease in her brow. He was pretty sure she was just operating on coffee. Her grumpy never touched him, though, Reese was Reese. Crews was Crews. That was the way they rolled.

"You have fresh fruit ice cream, don't you?" he asked brightly. "Because I know my partner would _love_ some peach ice cream, or sherbet. You'd like sherbet, wouldn't you, Reese? I know you do, c'mon, try some? Just a little. I bet he'd let you try some. You'd let her try some, right? One of those tiny spoons?"

She was glaring daggers, but he kept smiling. There was a _Crews!_ look that followed the spoon of peach ice cream she quite suddenly found in her mouth. Reese was quietly thoughtful for a moment and shrugged. _S'allright_.

"Yeah," the kid said, blinking at them. "We got ice cream. With fruit. I gotta start the machine every morning. Dump stuff in there. Peaches, lemon, mango, strawberries, put some pineapple in this morning. Slow churned. Is that lady dead? And do you want small, medium, large, or extra large, or like...mega? Cuz...we got them. She's dead, right?"

"Yeah," Reese squinted to read the kid's nametag, then tossed the spoon in the trash, "Thomas, she's dead. Got herself murdered sometime this morning. You around? Maybe setting up your stand? Getting your shit together?"

Thomas half paused in scooping peach ice cream out.

"Wasn't here until six," he said, but his hands shook a little. "Didn't see nothing. You're cops, right?"

"Detectives," Crews said helpfully. "Homicide." He pointed. "I think I want the pineapple ice cream. No, no...pineapple _and_ mango. Reese, Reese..._two scoops_?" She opened her mouth, then closed it as he ran right over the _no_. "Two scoops of that peach."

She scowled and he ignored it, grinning, and paid for the cones.

"You sure you didn't see anything, Thomas?" Crews murmured. "Because your mouth is saying one thing but the rest of you? The rest of you wants to say something else, doesn't it?"

Reese leaned into the counter absently, licking at the ice cream with an intense expression on her face, like she was trying to decide if she really _liked_ it or not. He could tell she was listening, though. Reese was always listening. The kid was nervous, looked like he was going to run. Crews leaned in.

"It's okay," he whispered. "No one's gonna know you told us anything. We're just here buying ice cream, right? Peach and mango-pineapple. Hand me my change and tell me what you saw, Thomas. You can do that, can't you?"

Thomas bent slightly, change in hand, and nodded slowly.

"There was a man," he whispered, eyes darting. "There was a man in black. All black. I...I think he had a knife. I didn't see his face, I didn't! Just his eyes. Just his eyes. Shit. _Shit_, they were red. Red eyes they...they...yeah. Had on a mask, covered his head. He was a little taller than you are. And...and..."

"Shh," Crews said, smiling, "everything's just fine. It's okay. Just take it slow and count out the change again. Do you remember any thing else about him? How he walked, maybe?"

"I think he was limping," Thomas said. "And he h-had a knife. I...I gotta get back to work. I need to sell this stuff. There are. There are people coming. I gotta get back to my job, man." Crews dug into his pocket, slipped his card to the kid, and took his change.

"You think of something else," Reese said quietly, "you give Detective Crews a call." Thomas mumbled and shoved the card into his back pocket as she shoved off the counter. Crews fell into step next to her and nudged her gently.

"You thinking what I am?" he asked.

"I'm thinking he saw more than he says he saw," Reese said, frowning into her ice cream. "You think maybe our perp was wearing contacts?" She licked the ice cream absently, her thoughts on the case, figuring.

"I'm thinking our perp wanted to be someone he wasn't," Crews said and sidled a glance at her. "You _like_ that." She glanced over at him sharply.

"I do not," Reese said promptly, jerking to a halt.

Crews beamed and kept walking.


	3. Finders Keepers

Three hours later, one headache, two more cups of good coffee.

Two apples.

An onion bagel (not theirs). Sharp scent of manila folders. Stale dust. Stale _french fries_ (not theirs either). Underneath that, Reese could smell old peppermint and some fat-cop BO (definitely not theirs). Fucking slobs. Crews's orange, bright and citrusy blotted it all out an instant later. Reese scowled and half lowered the case she'd been flipping through.

"Not in here," she said absently as Crews leaned against the desk, peeling his damn orange while she paged through another file. Crews had been helping for the last hour until he produced an orange from God knew where. She was beginning to think he could pull fruit from anything. Her glove compartment had been filled with all sorts of shit one day. Drove her crazy when she went to find a map and little fucking apples rolled out. She was pretty sure there were still a few under her passenger side seat. His thumb sank into the juicy part and she half watched it run down his thumb all the way to the joint.

"Crews, what did just I say?" He stopped, caught the juice with his tongue, and peered at her before licking at it.

"Why are we down here, Reese? We've been down here for a long time," he said, still peering at her curiously as she dug through files. He was a little antsy, though, pacing, moving, picking at files, and moving again. She pretended not to notice. He pretended not to notice she was pretending not to notice. Reese winced.

"We're down here because this case is _familiar_. I just can't put my finger on it," she said with a sigh. Reese tried to grab a file, but he was _leaning_ on it. She swatted at his leg until he moved, eyebrows arched as he juggled his orange. He might have looked just a little bit guilty as he picked up another file.

"This is the cold case room," he said thoughtfully, but he wasn't talking _to_ her. Reese stopped reading to arch her eyebrows. "Circular patterns, circul-- No circular patterns in here. Lots of stab wounds, nothing like ours." He was doing that thing again. That thing where he wasn't really talking to her, but he was talking _at_ her like his thoughts just ran out his mouth when he wasn't actively trying to keep them in. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes for a moment, then snatched the file from him and put it back into the box it had come from.

He ate his orange in a state of bliss, though she kept shooting deeply meaningful _knock it off_ looks his way, and he managed to get through four more boxes before Reese growled under her breath. Stab wounds, circular. Two and a half years ago, in fact, it was just before she'd been assigned to Homicide and Crews. It had been one of those _things_ that had slipped in when she was just distracted enough.

"One dead woman, Caucasian, dark hair," she murmured. "Circular pattern stab wounds on abdomen. I thought I knew you. I wanna run this through ViCAP, maybe see if we get any hits."

"Hey, Reese?" She glanced at him. "I got another one. 2005. Circular patterns. Mixed race, predominantly African American. Cold case, no leads. Sheldon McFarland was investigating."

"Maybe we need to have a talk with Sheldon," Reese said, tilting her chin as she snatched his case and tucked it under her arm with the case she'd found. Crews stuffed the rest of the cases back in their boxes and padded slightly behind her. She could hear his expensive shoes creaking slightly.

"You get new shoes?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said as they took the stairs. Crews tossed his orange peel into the nearest can like he was slam dunking to a crowd. Reese rolled her eyes. "Why?"

"They're loud." She saw him make a face and then pause for a second.

Reese hid a smile.


	4. Bad Apple

Real darkness was wrapped in a film of normality. Real darkness, Charlie Crews knew, was a place so wrong it shone through someone's eyes like the way the dark of the sky would be if there were no stars. He'd seen many, many men with that darkness before he was sent to solitary. It was in their eyes, but sometimes, you couldn't really see it, not if you were _looking_. It was a corner-of-the-eye thing, a flicker, a there-but-not thing.

Sheldon McFarland was sixty-seven, retired from the LAPD after his last case failed to go anywhere, losing his hair, and wore a perpetual frown, which he used to greet them at his door. He looked _normal_, but Crews looked past him and saw the flickering. He'd been somewhere down in the dark, somewhere that wasn't prison but was somewhere _else_. He was pretty sure you didn't need to be in prison to be in prison.

"You should leave," McFarland said, but left the door open so they could follow him in. Crews caught the warning and traded a glance with Reese, his chin tilted. McFarland was in a navy blue bathrobe, ties swinging as he walked back in past a pile of boxes. He paused and turned into the kitchen, waving them to sit at a messy kitchen table littered with bills while he snagged two cups from the cupboard and poured them coffee.

"You know why we're here, don't you?" Crews asked.

"Girl at the pier," was his gruff reply. "Manny, my old partner, was here a few hours ago. Told me." McFarland shrugged. "I get two cases, the LAPD gets no luck in finding the bastard fucked up enough to do it. Whadya want from me? I don't have anything. They forced me to retire over the last girl."

He slammed the two cups down in front of them and Reese frowned as she watched the oil slide across the surface of the coffee. She didn't touch it. Crews followed her lead on that. Normally, he would have just drank it, but if she wasn't, he wasn't. They were both quiet and McFarland glared.

"I'm working this case, right," he muttered, "and my only suspect disappears out of police custody. The man was a Houdini. I couldn't keep cuffs on him, I couldn't keep him in my car. Hell if I know where he is now. We spent months, years, looking for him. He was _gone_ and no leads in a month, two months, then five, so we had to cold case it. I got sacked on the second one. This asshole leaves nothing."

Crews leaned back in his chair for a moment.

"No prints, no fabric, not enough blood either," he said, arching his eyebrows as he studied a long yellow-brown water damage crack in the ceiling. "He kills them somewhere else, sets them up to be found. That's alotta trouble to go to for killing someone."

Bobby had said something about witches. With the altar, the fruit (he wanted fruit, left a piece in Reese's car and he was worried about the Asian pear, the papple, but he could deal with it later), the odd wine that smelled closer to prison hooch than anything drinkable -- he was inclined to believe it had _something_ to do with the occult. Or maybe it was someone pushing the occult onto his victims. It was very ritualistic. The coins, too, he couldn't forget the coins. Big, heavy things.

"Everyone leaves something," Reese murmured absently. "There's always _something_."

"Those boxes are your notes?" Crews asked, gesturing into the living room that was no neater than the kitchen. There were four taped up boxes emblazoned with the right dates peeking through a swathe of a thickly knit orange and white afghan. The long creamy knotted wool tassels swayed as a particularly fat green eyed tabby swished by, his tail flicking.

"You want them?" McFarland asked, then waved. "Take them. I hope you have more luck than my team did. Maybe you can--"

Both of their phones went off at the same time. Crews held up a finger and exchanged glances with Reese as she answered hers and he listened to Bobby on his. Her eyes closed and she snapped off a few words before snapping her phone shut.

"Grab two, I'll take two," she said sharply, already on an intercept course to sweep the afghan away and snag a set of boxes. "You, stay in contact," she fired off at McFarland who suddenly looked a hell of a lot more crabby.

Crews liked the word _crabby_. Not only was it fun to say, it could be fixed with fruit. Maybe. McFarland didn't looked like he could be fixed with fruit. He watched Reese skirt around the cat (which hissed at her _move_ look and streaked away to parts unknown) as he hefted the two other boxes and followed his partner out. The notes went into the trunk and Reese leaned against the bumper, thinking.

"Our killer's been busy," she said, glancing through crime scene pictures. "Is Bobby coming to pick you up or am I dropping you off?"

"Two in one day, Reese," he said with a soft frown. "Why two?" She gave him a pointed look and stabbed at the car. Crews moved around to buckle up and waited until they were driving to say anything more. "Escalation is usually a response to something and these are ritualistic, _so_..."

"So maybe our killer's being triggered by something," Reese finished with a sigh.

"You're dropping me off at the second body," Crews said absently, thumbing through the pictures on his phone. His keys made soft blipping sounds and there was silence in the car for awhile. "He's keeping things."

"What?" Reese glanced over at him, frowning.

"Tan lines," he murmured. "A bracelet on the first victim - the skin is just a little lighter. A ring on yours, necklace on mine. Hair, too. There's a piece clipped off from each victim in the same place. I don't think this has anything to do with witches. Not really. Everything isn't exactly what it is, Reese. Sometimes it's more and when it's the right kind of more, we'll find more bodies. More and more and m--"

She pulled the car to a stop.

"Get out," was all she said.

He did, eyebrows arched as she punched the gas, and before he could reach for his phone, Bobby Stark barked his name. _Why did you give us two bodies? If there's a reason for everything and everything has a reason, why did you give us two bodies and send us in two different and very opposite ways? Do you not like us in one place? _Crews stared down at their newest victim, brow drawn, head tilted.

_What are you trying to tell us, Bad Apple?_ He thought it was a good nickname. When he and Reese met up back at the station, he was definitely going to mention that to her. Crews jotted down notes, took in the scene (the coins were there again), which was very much the same as the beach except for the beach part and one more thing.

There was more blood.

His phone buzzed and he glanced at the text and accompanying picture.

_Dani Reese: She died here. Lots of blood. Yours?_

He grunted softly as he pulled off his glove to peck out a reply.

_Charlie Crews: Same. Left my papple in your car. :(_

_Dani Reese: It's not going anywhere, Crews, you can have it later. What's missing?_

_Charlie Crews: Shoes. No shoes. Hair. Necklace. And you should be here, Reese. Not sure I like this._

He was moving toward the unmarked car to catch a lift back when the silence hit him, made him edgy. Crews looked up and saw two things.

Red contacts.

And a very fast, very unexpected fist. He didn't even have time to move before he hit the pavement, stunned. Crews heard his phone bounce as Reese's text message came through and caught a glimpse of it just before that fist came down again.

_Dani Reese: Watch your six._


	5. Fish & One

"My car got stolen."

Reese was crouched, her gloved fingers around Crews's phone as she battled to cage her rage. _You lost my fucking partner to go on a smoke break? You son of a _bitch. Her jaw tightened and the officer backed away a few steps.

"Look, I was only gone fifteen minutes and he was still studying the scene, Detective. I'm not his babysitter. I think maybe you should--" Reese cut him off with a glare as she found what she was looking for. _Thank you_, she thought, addressing whatever higher power was fucking out there. Crews had figured out how to take video. There were several on his phone, but the last one was what she wanted. After a dizzy moment of watching him get hit and the phone spin, she caught exactly what they needed and bagged the phone with a growl.

"You were supposed to _be_ there, Petersen," she snapped. "The next time you fuck me or my partner over like that, I'll bust you back so far you'll be sitting in with the first year cadets. Don't think I can't."

Petersen swallowed hard as she glowered and turned on her heel. _Crews_. She walked back to her car trying not to seethe, trying to _breathe_ through the way her chest tightened, and drove back to the station. Maybe they'd get lucky and the dirtbag had left prints. Trackable prints, prints that wouldn't make her feel like she'd fucking betrayed him by not _being_ there.

_This is what he wanted. He wanted Crews away from me, but why? Why would he want Crews? Maybe because Crews saw more. Maybe because Crews and I, together, would have caught him. _Their record of solved cases was more than decent and they did tend to nail their perps solidly enough for conviction, but there was more to it. More to all of it. _Gotta go back over the symbolism_. Maybe it wasn't that witch stuff. Maybe that's what the perp wanted them to see and there was more stuff she wasn't seeing because Crews was gone.

_Fuck_.

She wanted him back.

Reese shoved her hair out of her face as she pushed papers and files and folders and photos around her messy desk. His was clean, polished and shining in the afternoon sun, his coffee cup perfectly positioned on a coaster. The porcelain shone around the lip and she stared at it for a long, long moment.

"You hear from Charlie yet?" Reese rubbed at her eyes as Bobby Stark set coffee in front of her. She stared at him. "You hear anything _about_ him?"

"I been reaching out," she finally said, dragging the mug toward her. "No one sees anything, no one hears anything. You know the drill." She took a sip and blinked. "Did you pour Starbucks into my mug after you bought it?"

Bobby shifted and sank into Crews's chair with a shrug.

"You needed a real mug," he said. "Seemed like a real mug sorta moment, Detective." He glanced around the desk, quiet for awhile. "Man, I hate waiting for news. It's like bein at the hospital and sittin there waiting to hear some fuckin bad news. You wanna go grab lunch? Cuz I could go for maybe something Mexican. Sittin around here ain't gonna do nothing but piss the both of us off."

Reese closed her eyes, conscious the fact that Bobby still had his eyes on her. She thought about it, though, long and hard as she finished her coffee. Bobby knew by now there was no rushing her and managed to sit, knee jiggling, in silence.

"Taco Time, City National?" she finally said. "El Pollo Loco? Señor Fish?" She actually liked Señor Fish, it was laid back, quiet, and had unbelievable fish and rice. Crews had insisted they go there for lunch one day and she'd protested until they'd had plates in front of them. She gave Bobby a look and he raised his hands.

"Taco Time and El Pollo Loco gimme gas," he said and she glowered at him. "What? It's the truth. You don't wanna sit in a car with me after Taco Time."

"I'm not sure I wanna sit in a car with you anyway," she grumbled. "You're lucky it's not the far away. Alameda and 1st is practically walking distance. Gonna give Ted a call, I'd like him to join us."

"Ted's the guy who--" Reese waved him quiet as she dialed. She was pretty sure she could afford good Mexican if it was going to help get Crews back. After a short, pointed conversation with Ted, she hung up and grabbed her coat.

Bobby hesitated.

"You coming or what?" she called back over her shoulder. "I'm not waiting for you to catch up, so move it. We got a partner to find."

"Yes ma'am we do," Bobby said, half shaking his head. "We could take my car, it's parked out fron--"

"We're not taking your car, Bobby," she said quietly, holding up the keys. "We're taking Crews's. It's faster, just in case we need it." He caught up to her in another few steps as they took the elevator down to the parking garage.

"He ain't gonna mind you using his car?" Bobby asked curiously.

"He's not attached to it," she said dryly. "And we're not going for a joy ride. This is business." The answering chirp of his car sang out, echoing in the confines of the garage and she strode with sharp steps to the door and pulled it open before sliding in. Bobby sat in the passenger seat, an almost bewildered look on his face as she started the engine and slammed her door shut.

"Buckle up, Stark," she growled, "or you can ride in the back."

Wordlessly, he complied, and was rewarded by Reese punching the accelerator. It sent them shrieking out of the parking garage in a determined dash towards Señor Fish and a line of inquiry that was entirely off the books. If she'd learned anything from Charlie Crews it was that the LAPD sometimes didn't work fast enough.

_Hang on, Crews. We're coming._


	6. Not Here

Crews woke cold, shivering, his back pressed against whitewashed cinder block walls. There was an ache in his gut, twisting him in knots, and the sound of rain hammering down made him swallow hard. _This isn't Pelican Bay._ The floor was polished concrete and it stung when he pushed himself up, blinking into the harsh florescent lighting that hummed and buzzed.

_It's not Pelican Bay._

He remembered the eyes, which weren't real. They weren't real because he could see the edges of the contact lenses. He remembered the beefy hands that came down like hammers - fast, so fast, like a boxer, a man who'd been hardened into fighting. A man who'd had training. Men who hit like that had been inside, had been in the military, had been on the streets. Men who hit like that knew violence, lived it, ate it. He knew men like that. He knew what they could do. _The shiv tore through muscle and hit bone before he could even mo-- _God, _God_ he was back there, he was back. Back ins--

_Breathe in, just breathe_.

Crews breathed in through his nose as he sat still in the center of the room, his eyes closed as he shut out the world, _this world_. This world was not his world, not now, not again. He had to think. To _think_. Reese would find him. She could find him, he knew she could. He wanted to laugh, to scream, to bite and to snarl, but he didn't. He was in prison sweats and a gray tee (familiar, horribly familiar). Pelican Bay replica, Crews could tell. He wanted to take them off, but he didn't. It was cold. Cold like a tomb.

His tomb.

Crews could hear his heart beat hard in his head, throbbing to the ache of his jaw as he breathed in. _Why? Why now, why me? Why? Why!? I was already here. I was here for twelve years, why did you put me--_

He swallowed again and pushed the panic down, all the way down as far as it would go until the rage and helplessness was a small cry in the back of his mind. He had to think. If he could think, he could get out. He didn't have to be in here. He could be here and not be here.

He could think of Reese. Crews could see her, the curve of her cheek, the way her hair hung, the tendrils that escaped when she had it up, the tilt of her lips when she was amused, the taut lines of her body when she was furious and exasperated. He could feel her fingers on his for a moment, and his eyes snapped open, expecting to see her there, _somehow_.

Nothing.

He took a ragged breath in and tried to relax. He was on a beach. _No_. He was in his car, his big, powerful car, letting her drive. He was letting her drive him home. He was already home in his mostly empty house, the lights on, Ted ordering Indian (spicy, something spicy). He had apples, he had oranges, he had lychees. Reese passed him a slice of pear (crisp Asian, golden brown, sweet and crunchy, it was, that's what it was), laughing, the corners of her eyes crinkling. She smelled like oranges, tangerines, a hint of kiwi, a touch of vanilla. Mostly, she smelled like _Reese_.

He didn't have to be _here_.

Crews stayed liked that, sitting in the lotus position, his hands on his knees; _thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, thumb to finger, _over and over and over until he heard boots on hard concrete, echoing. The door was metal and it didn't open, the slat at the bottom did, and a tray emerged.

No fruit.

Not really food, either.

"Do you want to break me?" he asked. "Do you think you can break me?"

"Detective Crews," a deceptively soft voice said, "you're already broken."

"Why did you kill those girls?" he asked in the same soft voice, only there was hard, steel beneath his. Quiet laughter echoed and Crews caught his breath. "Why did you kill them?"

"I didn't kill them," the voice whispered. "The world killed them. And now the world is going to kill you." There was a pause, then breathing, then a soft scrape of metal against metal. "Sleep tight, Detective."

_Clip, clip, clip_. His footsteps faded, the booted heels growing fainter and fainter until there was nothing.

The lights snapped off and he was left with the sound of the rain, echoing in the tiny space of his cell like gunshots, tiny gunshot, exploding so loud the swore he could hear each one. They filled his head, pounded down on him, and for a moment, he wrapped his arms around his knees, pulled them to his chest and rocked. _No screaming_. He wasn't going to scream, _no screaming_. He shuddered and grit his teeth and held on.

His head spun.

_Breathe in_. _Breathe out._

He could wait.

_Reese. Dani? Dani...Dani. Get me out of here. I shouldn't be here, get me out, get me out, get me out, get, get me out, get me, get me out, get me-- Stop. Stop. Stop it. You're not there. This is not then. It's not now. It's not. Zen. Be Zen. Must be Zen. Have to. Have to stay present, have to stay. Can't go back. Won't go back. Can't, won't. Dani. You connect things, connect everything. Find me. You can find me, I know you can find me. No, no, no, no, no, no, no panic. No panic. No. Panic. It's not forever. It's not forever. This world can't kill you, it's not your world. It's not yours. It's not--  
_

"By thoughtfulness, by restraint and self-control, the wise man may make for himself an island which no flood can overwhelm," he whispered, his eyes shut tight as the rain came down harder. "No flood. This is a flood. It can't touch me. It can't touch me. She'll find me. My partner. My partner. Reese. I'm not here. I'm not. This isn't here, it isn't now, it's not even likely that it's now. There are peaches on my counter, bananas, grapes in the fridge, orange juice, there's a papple in her car. There's a papple."

There was a papple in Reese's car and she said he could have it later.

"Reese," he said, lifting his head in the darkness. "Reese, is it later yet?"

The pounding rain answered him.


	7. Connect the Dots

"Just sit!" Reese said in a soft hiss. Ted sat stiffly, his fingers clamped around the briefcase and the laptop she knew was in it. He was quiet, glancing between her and Bobby for a long and unsteady moment where he half rose. "_Ted_, look at me."

He swallowed and did so, flinching at the way her eyes burned into his.

"We're going to get him back," Reese said in a soft voice, "and to do that, I need your help. Everyone else is too slow." He looked like he wanted to bolt, maybe like he was going to be sick. She reached to brush her fingers against his knuckles, the motion not very _Reese_-like at all, but reassuring. _Stay with me, now. I want him home, I want him safe._ Ted swallowed again and nodded while Bobby shifted in the chair and ordered for all of them.

It didn't matter what they were eating.

"Wh-where do you want to start?" Ted asked quietly, pulling out his laptop as chips and salsa arrived.

Reese brought out copies of the files she and Crews had been tracing back and then brought Tommie Maisel's file, which she'd spent most of the time digging through boxes to find. Ex-paramilitary, saw action worldwide (unconfirmed), apparently wealthy from several sources, history of mental instability prior to 1990, fixated on guns, war, the usual bullshit. Failed to qualify for regular military duty. But she wanted to know about his finances.

Ted pulled them up more quickly than she could have ever gotten at the LAPD, though she'd sent the request in hours ago _officially_. Tommie Maisel went by seventeen other names, including a George Martin. Martin was important because he was affiliated with the Corrections department as a paper products supplier, which they only found out because of Ted. After a few hours, Bobby left to go home and Reese wound up driving to Crews's place to keep working with Ted.

She was on her cell phone, snapping and growling, pushing to get certain searches done and was met with resistance the entire way. By the time they made it to Crews's it was well after eleven. Reese immediately rebuilt the spread of folders, arrest records, and information. Ted helped when he could, but eventually went to bed.

Reese made coffee, paced, and finally moved everything up onto Crews's bed, where the space was comfortable _and_ functional. It smelled like him, oranges and something else, something very _Crews_. A few times, it was like he was there, pacing the length of the room, nudging her in the right direction, whispering his goddamn unending Zen. She wanted his Zen right now. Something stupidly useful like '_the blind man sees more than anyone_' or '_what is useful is hidden, only when we learn to seek do we find it_'. Crap job at Zen, she thought.

Reese didn't pause until her notepad was covered with connections. There was a trust fund set up in a fake name, fraudulent checks, money laundering, drugs, but something else stuck out as well. It hit her as first light poured in through the window.

There was a hole in the money. She'd been looking for something, not nothing. She'd forgotten to ask the question she _always_ asked him.

_What's not there, Crews?_

Ted was bleary eyed, putting the coffee on downstairs when she navigated the stairs unsteadily, an empty coffee mug and her own computer in hand with the information Ted had pulled the night before. She set both items down on the counter and rubbed at her eyes for a moment, ignoring the ache that had begun as a tight band and now made the back of her head itch and burn.

"Coffee?" Ted mumbled.

She just nudged the mug at him and squinted, frowning.

"There's a hole," she said, her voice cracking. "Ted, there's a big fat nothing right here. I don't trust it." Ted poured her a full cup of coffee and watched her gulp it down like it was water. Reese winced at the heat and then gestured.

"Nothing indicates evasion in this case. And..." Reese smiled and it lit up her entire face like a light .

"And," Ted peered at the information, or lack of it, her breath catching as he pieced it together, "...lemme see..." He tapped through a few screens, frowning. "I'll have to dig a little deeper, but I'm pretty sure I can figure out what used to be here." He glanced at her, pulling back slightly. "You haven't slept."

"I was busy," she said. It came out harder than she wanted it to and he half winced. "You get me that information, Ted. I wanna know what the hell this prick was hiding and then I want an address."

"Where are you going?" he asked, startled as she gathered her notes and packed up her briefcase.

"I'm going to work," she said, already half out the door. "Ted?" she called back. "You call me the _instant_ you have something, you hear me?"

She heard him mutter and loaded the car before she was roaring away back toward Los Angeles. They were going to find Crews. They were _going_ to find him if she had to tear the city up one house at a time. She tapped the speed dial on her phone and put it on speaker.

"Dani?" Tidwell sounded surprised.

"Don't you _Dani_ me," she said. "Tell me what the other team's been able to find. Any prints off the phone, at the scene, anywhere? Did the damn lab trace _anything_ to Maisel?" Tidwell cleared his throat and Reese hit the accelerator. "_Tidwell_, give me something. Anything."

"We got a hit," he said. "But don't go all excited on me, Dani. It looks like your boy Maisel has an accomplice and you probably aren't gonna like this." _Fuck_. He paused and she flicked her lights on as she blew through an intersection and around two cars.

"Tidwell!" she prompted.

"It's a juvie," he said quietly. "Maisel's daughter, Hannah. I'm gettin people out lookin for her, but I dunno. I don't like the fact that this jackoff has one of my detectives and I don't like the fact that this is pretty much day three. If he turns up in a body b--"

"He _won't_," she snapped. "I'm not going to let that happen. Gimme the last known address on Hannah." He protested and she went silent.

"Reese, come in to the station, have some coffee, talk to the team. You can't go vigilante on me. You know that's not right. We wanna catch this sicko just as much as you do, you gotta know that," Tidwell sounded earnest for once, but she didn't have time. They were running out of _time_, she could feel it in her gut.

"Gimme her address," Reese said again, her voice low and deadly. "I'm faster than the team right now. I'm _mobile_, Tidwell. Give it to me and I'll go right now, see if I can't find her."

She heard him sigh.

"I'm sending back up," Tidwell said and then gave her the address. She made a U-turn in a moment of sheer glee at the dime turning radius on his car, and sped in the opposite direction. This time, she was running lights and sirens, clearing people from her path with her heart roaring in her head. She cut both three blocks from the house pulled up to the quiet house, gun drawn.

Fuck back-up, the front door was wide open.

She could hear someone sobbing in the back and moved through a torn up living room. The guts of a TV were strewn across the floor and the sound of water running was coming from a bathroom up the hall.

"Detective!" Bobby Stark's voice hissed from the doorway. Her eyes found his and she motioned fr him to take her six. Juarez headed for the kitchen. Reese's fingers shoved Bobby back for a moment and he frowned. She tilted her head meaningfully and he glanced down.

Blood.

Lots of blood.

Reese forced herself to breathe. _It's not Crews. It's not him. _Bobby's hand caught her shoulder and for once, she didn't mind his support as she swallowed nausea down. The sobbing grew louder.

There was a fifteen year old girl sitting in the bathtub. Her huge gray eyes were instantly on Reese's.

"Bobby," Reese said softly. "Get an ambulance down here and go wait in the other room." She heard him move and she grabbed two towels before kneeling next to the bathtub. "Hey, are you Hannah?" she asked in a voice Crews might have used. It was soft, gentle, almost a whisper.

"If he sent you," Hannah said brokenly, "if he sent you, you can tell him I'm done. I'm _done_. He puts them where they're not supposed to be. He lets the world kill them. He lets their world kill him and I don't wanna do this anymore."

She turned the knife against her wrist and Reese snatched at her hand and twisted the blade away.

"Shhh," she murmured soothingly. "No one's going to make you do anything like this ever again. Hannah," Reese said and made sure the girl was paying attention to her, "Hannah, listen to me. Just listen to me. My name's Dani and I _promise_ I'll make it stop, but you gotta help me. You gotta get up."

There were deep cuts on her arms and Reese swallowed hard, pushing Crews to the back of her mind to focus on Hannah Maisel, who just might know where to find him. The girl's arms slid around Reese's neck and she lifted her, then set her on the floor. Now there was blood all over her shirt (shirts could be replaced) and her pants (replaceable, too) and Reese was putting pressure on the worst of the wounds with a towel. Hannah was half sprawled in Reese's lap, bawling.

"Everything will be okay, I promise," she whispered. "We're gonna find your father and we're gonna put him somewhere where he can't ever do this again."

"He ain't my daddy," Hannah hiccuped. "He ain't. Mebbe he adopted me, but he _ain't_ my daddy. Daddies don't _do_ that to people. He said. He said that man was an offerin. An offerin to the _world_ for all the bad things in his head and when he done put on the red eyes. When he done put them on, he was the _world_. He come down on people. Give them their worst nightmares, and then he'd offer em up to the world. I never seen him so calm when he drug that man out of the car an he said. He said 'Hannie.' He said, '_Hannie_, this is the last one. The world don't want none more after this one.' And I knew the man. I knew his face. He was that cop. He had nice eyes. And red hair. And I didn't want the world to have...to have him."

Reese went cold.

"Hannah, sweetheart," she whispered. "Do you know where that man is right now? The man you said you knew? The cop? Do you know where he is?"

"Yeah," the girl mumbled faintly. "He's in the dark, now. Tommie Mai_sel_ put him in the dark. In prison. He put him in--"

_Crews, oh Jesus Christ._

"Where?" she hissed softly. "Tell me the address. I know you can do this. Hannah. _Hannah_, don't you die on me. Look at me." The girl blinked. "Good. Now tell me where he is."

The EMTs descended and she protested. Hannah's eyes rolled to Reese's and her lips moved. Her breath came ragged as she helped the EMTs move the girl and then loaded her into the ambulance. Bobby caught her as she stumbled back.

"Reese?" he asked quietly.

"I know where he is," she whispered, already fishing for her keys, already pulling away towards her car. "I know where Crews is. Get the hell in, Stark." His mouth opened.

"_Get. In. _Or so help me God..."

Bobby Stark stared at her for a second longer, glanced at Juarez who gave him a _what the fuck, man?_ look, shut his mouth, got in and buckled up. They shrieked out of the drive and into the late morning traffic, all lights and sound. Reese didn't care what she looked like, she didn't care (she looked like Death personified, all Hell and fire), because she had a destination.

Dimly, she heard Bobby ask her the address, which she told him, and then she realized he was talking Juarez. His voice was distant as she picked her way through the traffic, weaving and flying like she was some race car jock, her eyes focused, her body set, everything narrowed down into a tunnel. She had a destination.

If there was anything and anyone in her path between her and Crews, it, _they_ were going down. _Tommie Mai_sel _put him in the dark. In prison. He put him in-- _

Reese floored it just as her phone rang.

"Detective Reese?" It was Ted. "You might not like what I found."

"Tell me," she said in a flat voice. "Just tell me."

"Tomas Harriman, Reese," Ted said. "Tomas Harriman was a guard up a Pelican Bay the last ten years. Harriman is rich now." She shoved on an earpiece and stabbed the connector into the right jack. Ted's voice stopped echoing in the car and broke crisply in her ear. "Reese?"

"I'm here," she murmured, flying around the corner so sharply Bobby grunted in surprise.

"Are you in the car?" he asked. It sounded like he was frowning. "Do you have an earpiece in? Are you on the way to find Charlie?"

"Yes!" she snapped. "What about Harriman?"

"You need to talk to that Rayborn guy about him and I think you need to ask Charlie about him, too. About Rayborn. About everything." There was a long pause.

"Ted?" Reese whispered.

"Yeah," his voice was quiet. "Don't get yourself killed."

"I won't," she said. "And Ted?" He murmured. "Make sure there's fruit out."


	8. Now

The darkness pounded around him like the rain, like a living, breathing entity. He didn't move, couldn't. His ass was frozen and it was so cold and the rain was never going to stop. It was going to be there forever, pounding, shrieking, exploding. Like gunshots or trays against metal. Like the sound of madness in a room that never got bigger. His throat was raw, ached like his head.

_Just be. She's coming. Don't you give up on her. She never gave up on you, so don't you give up._

How many hours? How many? Thirty-six? Seventy-two? He hadn't touched the glop. The prison glop. He'd been through worse, hadn't he? In the hole. In solitary, for his own protection, where he talked to the walls and then didn't talk at all, and then went mad for awhile. He'd been in the dark, in the light, in the goddamn light all the time where day and night was night and day and day and day and day and-- And day.

Piece of pie. Apple pie. Could you make orange pie? He was going to try. He and Reese and Ted and Bobby. They'd try to make orange pie. Fruit pie, all sorts of fruit. Cobbler? Was that what they called it? Papple pie. Cherry pie. Blueberry pie. He wanted to make Reese blueberry pie and-- He could do this. He could breathe. He could breathe and be with Reese because she was there, in his car, coming for him, because she'd get him out. Because. Because when there was nothing left but helplessness, when you were all alone in the dark (it was dark, God, it was so dark - solitary wasn't dark, it was light all the time), that was when it happened, when in your supreme helplessness the Universe reached out to you, when everything was right _there_ and reached to touch your face. And it said, right now, it said she was coming.

His partner was coming.

So he sat in the stillness, in the stillness where he couldn't sleep, and believed in her, reached out to her with every last fiber that made Charlie Crews _Charlie Crews_. He had faith in her. He'd never lose faith in her.

Not even if the darkness lasted for a week.

His cheek hit the startling cold of the wall and he breathed. Just breathed. He was here. He was still here. He had his Zen, he'd have his partner. Patience. If he'd learned one thing at Pelican Bay, it was _patience_.

It was patience.

This world couldn't kill him because it wasn't his world. His world was out there on the streets with the pulse of the city around him, with the gangs and the murder and the violence and the crime solving beat of his heart that now roared in his ears. This wasn't his home. His _home_ was in his partner, in his station, in the wide open spaces of the house he shared with Ted, and the sunshine in his orange grove. His home had no walls.

His home and his world weren't defined by the guard whose boots were now snapping down the hallway.

The lights came on (blinding), he closed his eyes and heard the tray slide in.

Crews smiled.

"You're going to get shot," he said cheerfully. "I just thought you ought to know that when you get shot, it really, really hurts. Just so you know."

His guard laughed and his boots were gone again and the light buzzed and hissed and hummed. Crews hummed, too, and hit the light's pitch, buzzing along with it. _Reese is coming, she's coming, she's coming. Reese is coming. _He hummed it out in his head where she kept him safe and sane because she could do that._ Because that's what Reese's do. They keep us sane. Right? Right. _

Right.

Reese. 

_Reese_.


	9. Devils & Buddhas

"_Reese!_"

She jammed her foot on the brake and they slid to a stop outside of a condemned factory. Bobby bolted out of the car like she was trying to kill him and she sat there for a few seconds, breathing hard, pulling herself together before she popped the trunk release. She flung her door open and moved around to the back to grab a vest and then threw one in Bobby's direction. He barely caught it as Juarez pulled up.

A second later, Hell broke loose. She almost missed the click as a safety went off, almost missed the flash of a muzzle in the sun, and yelled.

There was the sharp spatter of a...what the hell _was_ that? A mini-Uzi? _Jesus_. She heard Juarez shout, watched Bobby move, and was already firing her weapon in the direction of their shooter to provide cover while Bobby dragged his partner back. Her eyes caught his. Juarez was hit.

Leg wound.

Bobby needed to stay put. He slid his gun to her and she took it along with his spare magazine, checked hers, and scowled as she pressed herself up against Crews's car.

One.

Bobby used Juarez's gun to cover her and she bolted toward the metal doors. She ran so fast it felt like her feet didn't even touch the ground. _I'm coming. Crews, I'm coming to get you out of there._

Two.

She shot the lock off the door and slipped inside. Reese heard water, a torrent of water. The shooting stopped and Bobby hollered at her. She heard him and her jaw tightened as she quickly checked both guns to make sure they weren't jammed. The last thing she needed was guns that didn't work when faced with a fucking maniac with an _Uzi_. Reese followed the sound of the water, her body taut, listening for anything beyond the roar of water.

Three.

_STOP._

She jerked to a halt and took a few short breaths in. There was a humming sound coming through the door she was leaning up against even as she caught sight of the muzzle coming around the corner. Her fingers flicked the dead bolt on the cell and eased the door partially open.

The moment slowed as her arms came up.

Maisel pulled the trigger at the same moment she did. Reese watched her bullets hit him in each shoulder even as the force of the ones he'd fired at her chest slammed her back against the door and then into the cell. Reese hit the ground hard, practically bounced, skidded against metal trays, and sprawled breathlessly in front of Crews.

There was a moment or two when she almost lost consciousness, _almost_. But she kept her eyes on his face, she kept her focus on him. He was still humming, like maybe he thought this was all in his head, and she winced as she ripped her vest off to suck in a few breaths.

"Crews," she said softly. He didn't move and she forced herself upright to peer at him. He wasn't there. He was somewhere else. "Oh God, _Crews_." She didn't care that she hurt or that her cheek was bleeding, or even that a bullet had grazed her shoulder. She didn't care that she'd probably cracked at least one rib and that it hurt like _Hell_ to breathe.

"Crews," she said again, urgently as her fingers found his cheeks. "Hey. _Hey_, you gotta come home now. It's time to come home." Her chest ached, her lungs burned, but she murmured his name gently. "Charlie, come home. I can't drag you out of here myself, you have to help me. Charlie. _Charlie_...don't you leave me alone in this."

Her lips brushed his ear as she heard Bobby shouting.

"Look at me," she whispered. "You look at me." Reese rested her forehead against his and was rewarded by the way his eyes finally found hers. "Hey. You remember me?"

She watched him struggle and kept herself together enough to carefully brush her fingers against his hair encouragingly. He was all stale sweat and desperation, all darkness and sorrow and stank of fear. _I'm sorry I didn't come sooner, God, Charlie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm slow without you, I'm so slow. Just...just come home. Come home and forgive me for not getting here faster._

"Reese?" he finally whispered.

"Yeah." Her voice cracked. "I'm taking you home. I'm taking you home right now. Help me." He slid his arms around her and helped push them upright as Bobby skidded into view.

"_Shit_," he said, staring at them for a moment. "I mean..._damn_, Charlie. Reese? You okay?"

"Bobby, I'm taking him home," she said softly, not bothering to answer his question. "Make sure Mr. Maisel doesn't die. I want him in prison, alive. You go ahead and read that asshole his rights and then when he comes around after they dig my bullets out, you read them to him again."

Reese shifted and then got them moving, pulling Crews with her. She could feel it, how every step away from that hellhole gave him strength, woke him up. She kept talking, kept a low stream of words, about the case, about the girl Maisel had adopted, about the connections, and how she'd found him. She whispered it until the sunshine hit their faces, blinding but beautiful.

The EMTs checked them over, swarming, and they had to let go, but she kept her eyes locked with his. He wasn't hurt, not really, not physically, and she let the EMTs patch her up, refused that ride into the hospital to get chest films taken. She knew what a cracked rib was and it hurt far less than watching Crews stare at her in a daze.

"Detective Crews, maybe you should come along to the hospital, too," an EMT murmured. Crews stared at him for awhile and blinked.

"No hospitals," Reese hissed. "I've got him. I've _got_ him. I'll take him home."

"Does he have someone who can be there for the next few days at least?" The EMT's question was perfectly reasonable, but Reese rounded on him.

"He has _me_," she said, then, softer. "I'm his partner. He has me. His roommate, too, Ted. He has us." There was a measured glance and then a slight nod. They could go. They could finally go.

Crews was quiet, half lost as she eased him into the passenger side of his car and tucked him in, buckled him up. She turned the engine, dug into the center console and produced a papple. She held onto it until they were on the highway, the windows rolled down, fresh air streaming in, then pulled over to the side of the road. He blinked not precisely _at_ her and she bit her lip. Reese's fingers skimmed his jaw, forcing him gently to look at her.

"It's later," she said in a soft voice. "It's later, Charlie."

And she pressed the papple into his hands. He stared at the way their hands overlapped and his voice sounded, rough and weary.

"Is it?" he asked very softly, the very edges of a smile touching his lips. He stopped talking for a long while and then started again just as abruptly. "I knew you were coming, Reese. In the dark. I knew it."

"I'm your partner," Reese said gently. "I'll never leave you behind."

"I know," he said, humming the words out as she pulled her fingers away and pointed them toward home.

There was a long, long silence.

"There's no Reese without a Crews," she said, just loud enough for him to hear as he bit into the papple.

Charlie Crews broke into a brilliant smile.


	10. Home Is This

Reese turned her phone off, he was surprised at that (but just for a moment), and left it on the counter as she moved past it and up the stairs with him. Crews weaved unsteadily, his fingers grazing the wall, catching, and she pulled him closer. He eased into her and let her take some of his weight so he could move. There had been words for Ted, soft ones (yes, he was fine, no he wasn't hurt, thank you...and thank you, lots of quiet reassurances), and then he'd disappeared. He was giving Charlie time. Time to pull himself together, time to get used to his own skin.

The fruit bowl had been refilled with bright oranges and bananas that were just ripening, apples that were pink with sunny yellows blended into their skins, starfruit, definitely lychees, and mangoes. There were sweet, red, mangoes. They grew them purple, too, but these were red.

Grapes, too, and cherries.

Fuzzy green-brown kiwis.

Lemon. Pineapple. Nectarines.

But the fruit would come later.

He didn't know how long it took them to move from the stairs into the back, into his room with his massive bed. He didn't know until it hit him, that she'd thrown the windows wide and let the sun and the wind in. It was cool with a touch of ozone that said a storm was coming (the storm had passed, his storm had passed). Charlie blinked up at her and watched the way her hair caught the light in a blaze of gold-brown.

For a moment, all he could do was stare and wonder if he was dying. If he was back there, being carved up, feeling the knife tear-- No. _No_. He breathed in sharply and shuddered.

"Take them off, Charlie," she said very quietly. He stared at her blearily and glanced down at the prison sweats, the t-shirt, and blinked. Her fingers were there, taking him out of one world, pulling him into the next, pulling him home. She smelled like his shampoo, a blend of tangerine and orange, and the almost spicy scent that was her own.

"You're not _there_," she murmured as the shirt was flung into a heap as far across the room as she could hurl it. "You're here, with me, right now. Say it." Her fingers caught his chin and his lips parted. "_Say it_."

"I'm here," he whispered, "with you," her fingers eased and her thumb brushed his lower lip, "right now." He pulled another breath in and leaned into her touch. "I'm here."

Her shirt was soaked with blood. He saw it, then, bright, vivid red, fading to brown. It wasn't hers. It was from the girl. From Hannah, but for a moment, he could see it as if it were. Back there with Roman (he was dead, he'd never hurt her again), the rawness around her wrists, the pain in her eyes. If he looked at her long enough, he could see it, still there. Right now, all he saw was bright red anger and sweet, sharp relief. It made her clear, it made her fierce, defiant. It gave her the face of an avenging angel with her hair snapping around her in the breeze.

He loved her then. He'd always loved her, but in _this_ moment, in this one, he loved her all over again.

"We'll burn them," she said and he watched her fingers tremble as they settled against his cheeks. Reese moved restlessly away from him then (he could still feel her fingers against his skin) and he heard the sound of the shower start. She was back an instant later, pulling him toward the water.

"It's hot," she whispered. "It's hot and clean and--"

"I know," he murmured, his fingertips resting against her hips for a moment. "Stay with me?" Reese stared up at him with a wry smile and pulled her shirt off, tossed her tank. Her fingers found his sweats and he could feel the force of her hate as she steadied him, then threw them out of the bathroom with a soft snarl. They were things to be hated, prison things. Hateful things.

He was dizzy, nauseated, and sagged against the door frame as the sound of fabric hit the floor. One. Two. Her skin was smooth as she eased him against her, supporting them with frightening ease in a game of balance she played so well he almost didn't notice they'd moved. Not until the blessedly hot wash of water hit his back. Reese murmured, but he couldn't catch the words. They were fluid, sibilant, comforting.

Beautiful.

He wasn't thinking about the way her body curved or about the way the water shone in rivulets as it ran over her skin. Well, he _was_ thinking of it and he wasn't because how could he _not_ think about her when all he could see was her? Reese. Right there. Wholly and completely there.

His Reese.

His Reese, who sported dark bruises where Maisel's bullets had hit her vest. It was so very like her not to complain. He knew they hurt. One, two, three...four bullets. Five if he counted the one that had grazed her arm. He wanted to kill that man, now, but Reese had given him what he deserved. She'd caught him. No one should have to go to prison. No one. But some...some had to go there because of the things they'd done. Not everyone who went there deserved to be there, but Maisel? Maisel deserved it, for killing those women, for what he'd done to Charlie, for what he'd done to his partner, for what he'd done to Hannah.

Reese had caught him, she and Bobby and Juarez and Ted, they'd caught him. He'd never get out, he'd never kill anyone else. Not ever. Not ever again.

She had a washcloth in hand and the sweet scent of oranges and tangerines (that was his soap, the soap he'd had made from his very own oranges and there were mandarin orange peels in it too, tangerine, as well) poured from it, filled his head with summer. Her hands were soft, they didn't shake as badly as his, and he let her take it away. He let her wash prison from him, that prison, that Hell; that place he'd come from and sometimes still went to in his dreams.

Charlie found her hair and buried his fingers in it, whispered her name so quiet that he felt her still. Her name echoed for a moment and he heard the wet _sop_ of the washcloth hit the black and gold veined marble floor. His knees gave and she let out a soft cry as she half caught him and half fell with him. He heard her knee hit the floor, felt his bones jar, but her voice was firm.

"I'm here," she whispered, and her voice fell between the sound of the water coming out of the shower (not rain) and the sound of his heart racing in his head. Her fingers slid against the nape of his neck, hesitant until he wrapped his arms around her. He was quiet and still as she washed his hair once, then twice, her hands shielding his eyes from the soap, her thumbs stroking slow circles against his scalp.

The roaring lessened, the waves of panic eased.

_I'm here._

And then she rocked him while the water washed them both clean. He realized, quite suddenly, that she was murmuring in Farsi. It could have been anything, but whatever it was, it helped. Charlie closed his eyes and buried his lips against her collarbone until the water started to run cold.

He was here.

He was home.


	11. The World Slumbers

Dreams.

There were always dreams. Shapeless things, nameless things, dark things. They rose and fell like white caps in a distant slate blue ocean where nightmares came from. She dreamed about Crews in that cell, she dreamed about pulling a knife out of him, and trying to stem the blood that got everywhere in splashes of bright, bright red. Redder than Hannah's blood. It woke her, gasping, and he'd been there to calm her. Sleep came and went and she dreamed about pulling him into the shower, about the black, gold veined marble, about curling herself around him, both of them clean, both of them whole. They were whole like this, the both of them.

Reese dreamed about his lips buried against her neck and his arms around her, the soft give and take of his breath a true, deep sleep, but that was a half dream. They were tangled together on his bed, a frighteningly soft (which meant _frighteningly expensive_) pale cornsilk hued sheet loosely covering them.

Earth tones.

She hadn't paid attention earlier, but his bed was done in earth tones. His pillows alternated between cornsilk and rust (they were firm, plush), with the comforter a rich rusty brown and the silk underside, which brushed her calf, a sweet, soft pale blue. She shifted slightly and felt him let out a sigh as he buried his lips into her collarbone. Her fingers brushed through his hair and he mumbled softly, but didn't wake. Reese was fine with that. He didn't need to be anywhere and her phone was off, probably collecting voicemail from an irate Tidwell.

Or IAD.

Or Bobby.

Ted would know better and vacate the house for Olivia's for the next few days. She was convinced Ted was the smartest one of the bunch. He knew Charlie needed a moment and that she, too, needed that same moment. They were partners, more than partners, closer than most _people_. They were one piece, now, curled on his bed, two halves nestled into a whole, quiet, at rest, in a moment of rare peace after a great and terrible storm.

They _were_.

She'd text Tidwell later, a few words punched out over fruit or sunshine. He'd understand and give her the rest of the week off anyway after he took a look at that vest. He might even realize that Crews needed the week, too, but she'd have to quietly bring that up. No doubt there'd be an insensitive crack to deflect as well. Tidwell wasn't even aware he did it until the words were lost to the growl of her answer and the blaze of her sharp stare. He wouldn't get the benefit of those in person because she wasn't leaving the house until Crews was ready. Reese got hazard pay for this damn case anyway. That was enough to insist on a mini vacation while she and Crews both healed and definitely enough for Tidwell to approve it.

But that? That was not now.

Now was a new morning with dawnlight whispering through the room, its pale pink fingers warming to a rosy gold as it chased the deep, earthy scent of rain through the room. Now, she had a mouthful of his bright red hair (she carefully picked the strands away, trying not to laugh) as he curled himself around her tightly, as if even in his sleep, he was afraid she'd leave.

Crews tensed until she stroked her palm from the nape of his neck to his lower back and murmured gently. He could sleep, she could just _be_. She felt him relax, finally, his whole body draped around her, against her, like a blanket and she closed her eyes again. Moments like this were rare. So rare. Reese was going to cling to it as long as she could.

The world would wait for them.

It always did.


End file.
